


To Taste Your Beating Heart

by orphan_account



Series: Howl at Hallowed Ground [2]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Power Play, Sequel, Smutty, darker take on wendy, darkish, i can't stop im so sorry, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-17
Updated: 2013-11-17
Packaged: 2018-01-01 20:31:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1048273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter and Wendy continue their dance, with new and interesting steps. </p><p>Continuation of Drag My Teeth Across Your Chest. Darkish!Wendy, OOC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Taste Your Beating Heart

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second instalment of Drag My Teeth Across Your Chest. I was originally just going to leave that as a oneshot, but I literally have zero self-control and I just have a lot of feelings about Darling Pan, OK?
> 
> Smutty, dark feelings that I should probably see someone about.
> 
> *coughs*
> 
> Anyway. Read and review!

 

_To Taste Your Beating Heart_

 

Wendy has never liked Felix.

The other Lost Boys are fine, she supposes. Once they stopped thinking of her as  _Mother_ or  _girl_ and recognised she was far from the little child who’d cried when she realised mermaids weren’t as sweet as she thought, they had welcomed her as one of their own. She spends most of her time with Tootles, really. He’s funny and easy-going and doesn’t shy from a game of Dare,  _ever._

They’ve spent the years seeing who can climb the tallest tree or who can scale the rock at Pirate’s Cove the fastest (a record which he holds, much to Wendy’s irritation). Their friendship consists mainly of crude jokes and the solid camaraderie she once had with her brothers, but nothing deep. She makes it her business to know  _everything_ about her friends, but it is no longer out of a caring heart. It’s strategy.

Tootles can never lie to her, no more than he can out-think the Pan. She likes him anyway. She is never surprised by Tootles, always knows exactly what to expect.

Felix, however, is something of a mystery. Wendy despises this with all that’s left of her heart, rages about it in her head while keeping her expression carefully blank, imagines striking his stupid, smirking face  _again_ and  _again_ and  _again_ until-

She knows what it is that irks her. She can never tell how Felix will react to something, whether he’ll laugh or screech or lash out, particularly when it comes to  _her._ Where Peter is cruel in a way that is somewhat boyish and reparable with the silly gifts he gives her or the jokes to make her laugh almost seconds after he’s made her blood boil, Felix has a special brand of cruelty which makes her itch.

It’s not that he  _does_ anything, not really. It’s in the way he watches her and the other boys stitch up whatever wounds they’ve gotten that day. It’s in the way he gives a small, half-smile at the corner of his mouth whenever a Lost Boy hisses in pain. It’s in the way he stares at the blood, something greedy alighting in his eyes.

Felix thirsts for violence, even more so than Peter himself.

(even more so than she does)

He sets her teeth on edge.

“What’re you so quiet for?” Peter asks, tugging on his trousers.

He’d cornered her in the middle of the forest again, while she was picking berries for the cake Tootles had (tried) to make.

It was a week from the first time. A week after she’d woken up, still resting in his arms, and had nearly died from shame when she rolled over and found  _Tink,_ of all people (or fairies), holding out her nightgown to her with a smirk on her face.

Needless to say, Wendy had taken her clothes and  _ran,_  back to the camp, back to where all the other boys were asleep.

Peter had stormed into her room the next morning, when she refused to go out exploring, and had demanded to know why she’d been gone when he’d woken up.

She’d kissed him to shut him up, and things had escalated from there.

That day, he hadn’t even bothered to undress her, just reached under her dress while she braced herself against the tree and stroked her until she came apart, trembling and whimpering out his name.

Of course, she couldn’t let him win like that, so she’d pinned him to the ground the first chance she’d got and made him  _beg._

 _Wendy,_ he’d gasped, when she pressed his hips to the floor and let her mouth hover above his stiff, aching cock,  _please, please come on_ please.

He never seems to mind  _too_ much when he loses, a fact that Wendy can’t quite wrap her head around.

“Just stunned,” she replies, smirking at him, “I never expected the  _great_ and  _powerful_ Peter Pan to beg. How  _cute_.”

He does, however, object to being called  _cute_ or any other similar adjective.

“Right.” Peter growls, stalking towards her. “I suppose I’ll be returning the favour, then.”

She tries to run away, but she’s laughing too much (and probably wants him to catch her, but she skims over this thought) and he catches her about the waist and practically  _throws_ her to the ground.

Wendy lands with a thud, her head smacking against the dirt, but she’s too annoyed at his audacity to care. “ _You-_ ” she begins, incensed, but he’s already pushed her gown up and over her knees, and she’s tilting her hips anyway, so she simply props herself back on her elbows, watching.

It’s an odd position to do this, really. Usually he has her standing while he reaches into her most intimate place, so he can watch her come apart and feel her skin prickle. She’s noticed he likes it when she collapses  _onto_ him, like he’s the only thing keeping her standing (often, he is, but she’ll die before she admits this).

She’d avoid that, if it didn’t make him breathless with want. A tool for her to use.

Wendy has already learned him, learned his tricks, learned what he likes and doesn’t like.

His body is a game; press the right buttons, make the right moves, and she has won.

A kiss to his earlobe always makes him shiver, a thumb flicked across the head of his cock never fails to elicit a helpless whine. She knows he becomes obedient,  _silent_ , as soon as her mouth goes anywhere near it. She can make him beg, make him cry out her name.

He’s almost as good, though. One heated look from him can make her flush, one swipe of his tongue against her lips can make her sag in his arms. It’s infuriating, but at least she can dance the dance better than he.

Peter kisses the inside of her knee, a chaste peck, but then his head goes  _lower_ and he places scorching lips on her upper thigh and she jerks backwards.

“What are you doing?” she demands, teeth gritted.

He raises an eyebrow at her, hooks his hands underneath her calves and drags her back to him. He places his palms either side of her head as he leans over her, hips pressing against her core so that when she chokes down a whimper he catches it in his mouth.

He kisses her, long and hard and deep. She’s (stupid) gotten used to the feel of his mouth over hers, the way he draws back to pepper light caresses on her jaw, then back again to taste her tongue, the way he kisses with his whole body, trying to consume her.

But, it is all a game, and she knows better than anyone a game is no fun without a challenge.

Wendy arches her back, pressing close to him and snagging his lip between her teeth. She bites down until the familiar burst of blood, coppery and warm, slides down the back of her throat. She rams her hips up,  _up,_ grinding against him, and slides her hands into his hair so she can kiss his ear, just the way he likes.

Peter is gasping with need when he looks at her, dark eyes brewing a storm, and says, “Returning the favour.”

He slides, almost  _slithering_ down her body, until his head is so  _close_ to her mound that she can feel his hot breath through her knickers.

 _He’s not going to_ \- the thought is cut off, though, when he lowers his head and plants a blistering kiss against her core, his tongue sliding out to rasp against the coarse fabric of her underwear.

Wendy’s hips buck, electrified, and her thighs clamp shut over his ears. She puts her hand over her mouth, pressing hard, and tries to muffle the lustful cries that are tumbling from her mouth.

His hands come up to press against her hips, and he quirks his brow at her.  _Don’t move,_ is the silent mockery, and her temper slices through the fog of her shock.

“How  _dare_ you!” she hisses through the cage of her fingers, but he silences her when he leans forward and takes the edge of her knickers in his teeth.

The forest around them comes alive as she watches, shocked (although she schools her features into a furious yet unimpressed mask, he obviously isn’t fooled), while he slowly pulls her underwear down her legs.

His cheek slides down her skin- she can feel the thick, golden-brown waves of hair, his ears, his teeth. Wendy shivers. His smug excitement is written in the swaying of the trees.

Over the past few days, she has begun to wonder if the forest is not only whispering Neverland’s secrets to Peter, but also reacting to his moods. She wonders why she never considered that, before.

Perhaps it’s only becoming apparent to her now because she’s spent a week listening to the wind howl in tandem with his moans swallowed in her skin, the thrusts of his hips, the whispers of  _Wendy-bird Wendy-bird Wendy-bird_ into her hair as she comes.

She hates it when she does that. When he pretends to be tender. He does it so  _easily,_ too- he returns her bites with licks, her bruises with kisses. He _knows_ it throws her off-course, even after all these years, she still has that place in her charred heart left for  _romanticism._ She still wants, deep down, someone to call Husband

(she doesn't need doesn't  _need_ anything)

Peter never speaks the words, though. She supposes that sweet nothings are too much of a lie, even for him.

She prefers it when he’s possessive,  _angry._ She always has control when he’s shaking with rage. At supper, two night before, she’d baited him,  _mocked_ him for not knowing the story of Christmas. 

 _You look like Saint Nicholas,_ she’d snickered at Tootles, who’d made a snow-white beard from some cotton he’d picked that day.

 _Who?_  Peter had asked her, frowning. He had a hand resting on her thigh under the table. Little gestures of ownership that were increasing more and more. Who was he to touch her leg? It made her angry, like many things did, so she’d retaliated.

 _You don’t know? Stupid of you._ She’d laughed in his face, not bothering with answering his question.

The hand on her thigh had dug its nails into the soft skin ( _no kinds in Neverland only me_ ), but she’d refused to show pain. She’d spent the rest of supper giving Tootles her upmost attention, placing her chin in her hand and hanging on his every word, her back to Peter.

Of course, he’d been waiting in her little house for her, apoplectic with rage. He’d dragged her inside, to her bed, but his fury clouded his judgement and she’d already gotten a hand down his trousers before he could barely spit out a word.

She’d reduced him to a shaking mess of anger and lust by the time the sky began to lighten, and as she leant over to kiss him, she tasted something like victory on his lips.

The power is addicting, she knows this. It’s dangerous, too. 

Every night, Wendy tells herself  _no more,_  tells herself to heed the warning Tink gave her over tea the day after she stumbled upon them together. And every day, her resolve never goes further than one of his  _stupid,_ teasing, heated smirks. She can never let him have the upper hand, even if it means baring herself to him.

Holding him together, then tearing him apart feels too  _good_ to give up. It's an exhilaration nothing else can match; not dipping her toes in Mermaid's Lagoon, not goading Hook and his crew,  _nothing._ She can manipulate Peter so much  _better,_ now; she can torture him with teasing touches that never  _quite_ satisfy or break him down until he quakes.

Beautiful.

Wendy knows she should probably be horrified at her behaviour. It's hardly becoming of a young Lady of society to be so vulgar, so  _wild,_ but Wendy has also not been a Lady for quite some time. And she thinks that around ninety years of not being able to touch Peter like she wants to, to  _punish him,_ allows her a bit of fun. And these dark games of the mind, of power and dominance, are the best fun she's had in  _so_ long. She can twist and play as much as she wants, and she knows that Peter won't be cowed- he'll give as best as he gets.

She couldn't have asked for a better opponent.

Her knickers hit the floor. She doesn’t spread her legs for him (never,  _never_ ), but he shrugs it off, sliding between them anyway. He presses his lips against her- Tink had said what they were called-  _folds,_ and watches her. His eyes are arrogant, his eyebrows raised, which is  _far_ more alluring than it should be.

The visual itself is almost too much- his hair is messy, sticking up wildly from her hands running through it (she likes his hair more than she’ll ever admit), his cheeks are still flushed from their last encounter not five minutes before, his eyes staring at her from between her thighs. It's a hot, burning gaze. It rakes over her face with the kind of hunger she's seen only mimicked in wild animals.

She’ll never look away, though. The challenge is present; suspended in the air between them, tangible enough to touch. Her heart is pounding, threatening to burst from her chest or crack a rib or  _something._ She’s aching again, aching for his touch, and it’s almost painful how much her body is screaming out for it- she needs it, needs  _more._

Peter’s hands move back a little to grip her legs, his thumbs pressing on the backs of her thighs as he pushes them open. He’s waiting for something.

_Returning the favour._

He wants her to beg.

Fury whips up within her, a familiar whirlwind that even Felix himself is wary of (Wendy is cool and calm, manipulative and  _tricky_ more than anything, but when she chooses she could paint the world red with her rage). But not Peter, never Peter. He’s not afraid of her. She can shock him, occasionally, infuriate him, but never scare.

So when she lets loose a feral growl (oh, if her parents could see her now), he does nought but smirk against her mound.

And begin to move back.

Without thinking, Wendy clamps her thighs down on his head. He stills.

“ _Don’t you dare_ ,” she spits, teeth bared and lip curled.

He bites her thigh, hard enough to make her hiss with the pleasure-pain that spikes up to her core. He soothes it with a lick, waiting.

The forest quiets, and the sound of Wendy’s shuddering breaths becomes loud as crashing waves.

This is no coincidence. He  _wants_ her to be loud, to break her control, to beg.

She grits her teeth. Peter quirks his eyebrow at her in an  _if you say so_ sort of way, and begins to move back from her, but she snarls and screams “ _Please!_ ” loud enough for the dratted  _pirates_ to hear.

The forest roars to life again as he plunges his tongue to her core, giving the soft heat a long, wet lick.

Stars burst and unfold beneath her skin, scratching the surface and scraping against the backs of her eyes. She struggles not to let them roll back into her head, forces herself to keep watching him watching her as he suckles, kisses and licks.

He kisses her core differently as he would her mouth- he uses no teeth, for one. She’s glad about that. But he uses his tongue on her like he uses his fingers, and the sensation feels as if she’s scrambling for something  _more,_ like nothing will ever be enough.

Although, when his mouth finds her clit (another nugget of information from Tink, who seems to have taken it upon herself to educate Wendy in the ways of sex) and stays there, she finds that this is very close to enough.

Wendy  _moans,_ louder than she ever has, and reaches down to tangle her fingers in his soft hair. She tugs on it, pushing it back from his forehead as he sucks her to near oblivion. His eyes never wander to his task, never leave her face, even when she uses her legs to draw him  _closer_ , pressing her core to his mouth.

She now realises exactly why Peter is always so obedient when she puts her mouth on him.

She locks her ankles at the seat of his back, tilting her hips up, and he gives her a  _look_ that’s full of dark, angry lust- and that’s it.

Wendy comes with a force she didn’t know she had, white light erupting behind her eyelids as soon as they slip closed, a whining shriek tumbling forth from her lips, shaking apart at the seams with Peter’s tongue still lapping at her, almost able to  _taste_ his smug smirk.

She throws an arm over her eyes, whimpering, and rides each wave of ecstasy, pushing up against his mouth and bucking into him until it’s all gone from her body.

She’s still lying there when she feels him prise her arms away from her face. She cracks open an eye, sees him smirking down at her with her juices all over his chin, and promptly closes it again.

“Wendy-bird,” he says. “Wendy, look at me.”

Her eyes are firmly shut. She’s lost the game.

“ _Wendy_.”

When she stays resolutely silent, he tugs her into a seating position by the front of her gown and pushes it up past her waist, over her head, until she’s completely naked.

The cool air washes over her sensitive flesh, making her shiver, and he pulls her into his lap. She can feel his cock, hard and hot, through his pants. She makes sure to wriggle, eyes still closed. He swallows, thickly.

(she may have lost, but Wendy has grown petty and doesn't shy from underhanded tactics)

Peter winds his hands in her hair, and pulls her head back sharply, exposing her throat. He teases the fevered skin with his teeth, lips slippery from her come, and she knows there’ll be a purplish bruise by the time he stops.

Her eyes fly open.

They’re careful not to leave visible marks on each other, at least not ones that can’t be hidden under clothes (the bite mark on his chest has only just begun to fade), lest the others see- and that could have consequences.

Keeping this  _thing_ , this game of cat-and-something-fiercer a secret is _better_ , anyhow. The stakes are higher. There’s more to lose. It makes her breath quicken, knowing they could be caught. Knowing that one of the Lost Boys could see them kissing, or worse, makes her abdomen tighten and spark with barely-dampened electricity.

(not for the first time, Wendy wonders what her brothers would say)

“ _Stop_.” She snarls, commanding, but of course he doesn’t.

He only sucks harder. So, Wendy does what she always does when Peter won’t do as he’s told.

She improvises.

Over the past week, Wendy’s gone to Tinkerbell’s house for tea every day. While there, Tink lectures her on the dangers and mechanics of the male body, in remarkable detail for a fairy trapped on an island full of boys. When Wendy mentioned this, Tink only smiled lasciviously and added  _pirates, too_.

So, Wendy knows quite a bit about  _what goes where,_ a knowledge she didn’t plan on using, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

She grits her teeth, placing both hands on Peter’s chest and pushes with all the strength she can muster, which is actually quite a bit. He goes down rather quickly, his lips smacking when they come off her skin and his back slapping against the dirt. The beginnings of a scowl start to unfurl across the superiority of his expression, and Wendy knows she has to work swiftly.

She yanks down his trousers (his belt is somewhere off to the left, having been flung haphazardly in their haste that morning), freeing his cock, and curls her fingers around the warm, smooth skin of it. He hisses, thrusting up into her palm already, and when she straddles his hips his anger gives way to shock.

“Wendy-?” he begins, but it is cut off by the strangled groan that erupts from the depths of his throat when she sinks down onto him.

" _Shut up_." She commands anyway, using the nails of her other hand to dig deep, red marks into his arm.

He doesn't seem to notice. He's staring at where their bodies join, mouth agape, eyes glazed with pleasure. They flick up to her face and his mouth works furiously, but he stays silent.

It’s awkward, none-too graceful, with her hand wrapped around his cock’s base so she can get it in properly. Hurts, too- her muscles aren’t used to this kind of thickness, and they clench around him automatically when they need to loosen.

Wendy bites her tongue against the stinging pain, swallowing the shriek of hurt when Peter cants his hips up and inside her, breaking through the barrier Tink told her about.

Her virginity. Gone, in a second. Is that all it takes? One thrust?  _How pathetic,_ she thinks, and wonders why it’s of so much value. In her opinion, anything that can break that easily shouldn’t even be thought of, much less considered important. That goes for people, too. In the world of Neverland, where  _everything_ is broken, sooner or later, you either toughen up enough to not show it, or you are eaten alive. She had to. 

“Oh-  _oh_ \- Wendy-” Peter groans, oblivious to her pain (but isn’t that what she wants?).

She pushes away the hand that reaches for her face, pressing it to her hip instead. His eyes are shut, his mouth open and desperate. She looks down at him, her curls hanging around her face, and begins to move.

That helps, a little. Wendy prides herself on being able to push past any obstacle, and rocking her hips to match his gives her a sense of purpose, as well as sparks of  _something_ (pleasurepain) that makes her eyes flutter closed.

As she moves, she starts to learn  _this,_ as well. Rising to the tip of him, then taking him to the hilt again makes Peter’s eyes fly open and his back arch. Tilting her hips back, then forward, then back again as he ruts into her makes him whine.

 _It’s a game,_ she thinks to herself as a particularly deep thrust sends pure pleasure sparking to her toes,  _just a game._

There are steps, there are strategies, and then there is a victor. She’s sure it’s going to be her. Her breasts bounce as she rises and falls, and she throws her head back and looks towards the sky, panting.

The forest is vibrating with life, the wind whipping through the leaves and branches and making wildlife scatter. It moves with his breath, erratic and sharp, rising to a crescendo at his moans and then, suddenly, quieting, as he rises up into a sitting position and pulls out of her.

Wendy gives a little whine from the loss of him, wet and  _wanting_.

“Turn around,” he commands, his voice hoarse.

She doesn’t ask why. He pulls her into his lap, her back to his chest, her knees on either side of his thighs, and pushes, deeply and uncarefully, into her. His breath tickles her ear, one hand holding onto her hip as he moves, hips rolling, against her. It sends tingles of sensation up her spine, down her arms, to her core. He pulls her hair to the side, kissing away salty sweat at the nape of her neck.

 _Oh._  She thinks, as he reaches around to paw roughly at her breasts. Her head falls back at the delicious friction from this new angle (how on  _earth_ did he figure that out), and he bites her at the junction between her shoulder and neck, hard enough to draw blood.

Wendy matches the rhythm of his hips, rolling them like he does, until it's less clumsy and more like the dance she compares it to. She takes him deep, pushing her pelvis  _back,_ and it feels as if they're merging- her back so close to his chest, the sweat sticking to them like a second skin- into one another. It's all she can smell, all she can feel, all she can taste. It's all  _Peter Peter Peter._

She reaches up to tangle her fingers in his hair again, as he laps at the blood, and it’s not  _enough_. There’s so much- pleasure- pain- heat- but it’s not enough. She’s hovering over the edge of release, but no matter how much she grinds down on him, no matter how much he kisses her neck, no matter how much he hits that  _spot_ with each thrust, she needs more. It’s a blazing hunger, raging from within, scorching her insides.

So Wendy grasps one of his hands and pulls it down to her clit. A few rubs of his calloused fingers against her, a rasping lick against her throat, and everything inside of her seems to simply  _erupt._  It's the stars underneath her skin, waves crashing on the shore of her body, blood singing and white light _all at once._ She seems to vibrate with the force of it, blasting apart at the seams, and her muscles spasm around his cock, forcing a crazed moan from his swollen lips.

She calls out, head thrown back, shrieks his name and rides him, hips bucking and skin slapping, until he follows.

Peter groans a muffled  _Wendy-bird, oh-_ into her shoulder, but the rest is swallowed by a meaningless, shuddering growl that resonates through him. The forest shakes as he does, a tremor that quakes the soil beneath them. 

She is the first to move. She slides off his lap, feeling the sticky seed leak out as she crawls to lie down on the soft grass beside him. He curls round her almost immediately, like he always does ( _a tactic,_ Wendy thinks,  _don’t let him soften your heart_ ), his right arm cushioning her head and his left coming up to rest on her hip. He likes to laze about, afterwards, and hates it when she won't.

“Stay, this time?” he whispers, lips against her hair, and her eyes widen.

She should say no. She should say  _I’d rather be with the others_ and watch the words cut at his hear- no, not  _heart_. Watch the words cut at his  _ego,_ his  _bravado,_ watch them make his eyes stormy and his lips thin. It would be  _oh so satisfying_ to simply walk away, to know he was watching her go, fuming.

Peter is only pretending to be soft. To be loving. There is ice in the space where his heart should be, and he cannot love her. He cannot give her the warmth she needs (but doesn’t deserve).

And ninety years of being an honorary Lost Girl have done nothing to soften her sharp edges, either. If Wendy is a two-edged sword then Neverland is a whetstone, and her time in this prison has made her cutting and deadly. She is hot where he is cold, burning with anger and bitterness and  _longing._  She’s still capable of love but it’s only a shadow of what she could have felt, a meagre scrap of how her parents cared for each other.

They are fire and ice. Flame and shadow. They can only ever consume each other- it's the oldest story ever written. There will be no happy ending, for either of them.

“Alright.” She says.

(it feels like something sweeter than losing)

Peter hides his smile in her hair, but she feels it anyway. He meant her to.

Wendy doesn’t fall asleep. It’s only morning, anyway, no matter how tired she is. She lets Peter rest for hours, until the sun is high in the sky and she figures its midday. Tootles will be wondering where she is with those berries, but he knows better than to come looking for her.

When they are dressed and Wendy’s cleaned herself off in a nearby stream (it wasn’t there the day before, but she doesn’t even blink when Peter shows it to her), they start back to where the Lost Boys are probably gathering for games.

On the way, Peter catches her hand and kisses her, murmuring  _mine,_ barely audible, against her lips.

Panic strikes up in her heart.  _Don’t let him soften you._  She spits  _never_ at him, growls it, and bites his lip.

They don’t get back to camp for another hour.

When they do, Wendy feels more like the bitter, manipulative witch she knows she is than she ever has before.

She wonders why she feels not  _regret,_ but something else.

(she doesn't see Felix glaring at her from the shadows, but Peter does)

**Author's Note:**

> So, the bit about Felix is sort of unfinished, but it's foreshadowing. Promise. Hope you enjoyed :)


End file.
